


After The Tide

by HoldHerTightAndSayHerName



Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Acting, Alternate Universe - Hollywood, F/M, Happy Ending, Los Angeles, Reunions, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:47:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName/pseuds/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName
Summary: In 2000, Claire and Jamie starred in the same movie and fell in love, but life got in the way. Ten years later, they meet again at an award show in L.A.[This is my submission for the moodboard challenge. Thank you Kristina for the moodboard (see it here: https://bit.ly/2RD3ElJ)]
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser
Comments: 82
Kudos: 315





	After The Tide

“ _I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be._ ”

_12:31pm_

Over the years, James Fraser had learned that visiting L.A. came with a few inconveniences. The endless meetings spent fighting jet lag, the sleepless nights, the ridiculous traffic, the lack of natural spaces, the fumes of weed and diesel that made him long for the clean, crisp air of the Highlands — all those were simply minor annoyances that, on most days, he was able to take with a certain fatalism _._ But the _stares_ — that was the one thing he never got used to.

Moving slowly, intently, in the way a prey animal tries to throw predators off its scent, Fraser placed his fork next to the plate of half-eaten pasta and carefully wiped his mouth with the thick paper napkin. The tingle in the back of his neck was unmistakable, like a familiar spider crawling along his hairline. Pretending to look at his phone, he sighed and braced himself for the attack, in _three, two, one_...

“Ahem… Ex-excuse me? Mister MacTavish?”

There she was, ready for the kill — a short woman in her mid-fourties, blushing behind thick rimmed glasses and a thick fringe of blonde-white hair, followed by a short man in an _Avengers_ T-shirt.

“ _Oh my God._ You’re him, right? I mean... you’re you! You’re James MacTavish!” Christ, she looked ready to faint or burst into tears, he couldn’t tell. He nodded with a tight smile. “I wasn’t sure, because of your glasses, but… _oh my God_ , I am _such_ a huge fan! I’ve watched your movies hundreds of time, you can ask my husband…” She pointed at the man beside her, scratching his upper arm and glancing towards the exit with a sigh.

“Aye,” he nodded, feeling more than midly self-conscious. “I don’t go by MacTavish anymore, but…”

But the woman kept babbling, unable to contain her excitement.

“Oh, hold on… I brought this, just in case... if you don’t mind...?”

She fumbled through her purse and took out a pen and a ten-year old headshot. The beardless lad on the picture smiled at him with something akin to deliberation — or arrogance. Grabbing the pen, he inquired for her name. These days, fan encounters were scarce, thank God, and only took place on this side of the Atlantic, but they never became easier.

“I can’t believe you’re here! How long have you been in L.A.?”

“Not long, actually.” Resisting the urge to doodle on his own adolescent face, he handed her the picture. “I’m only in the States for a few days.”

“Oh, you’re here for the festival tomorrow? Do you think you’ll see Claire? She was so good in _After The Tide_ , with that Irish actor — what’s his name...”

 _Claire_.

“Aye, she’s the best.” There it was, after all these years; that little pang of disquiet — of regret, perhaps, for what might have been. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to finish this before a meeting and—”

The woman’s blush turned a shade deeper, if such a thing was even possible, and she apologized profusely. As the couple walked away, Jamie stared down at the plate of now cold food, and reached for his glass of red wine with a sigh. He should have known better. L.A. was never a good idea.

***

_4:37pm_

“Oh, darling, you cannot be serious.”

In the makeup mirror, Claire watched her manager scratch his head, a nervous smile creeping up one side of his face.

“Look, Frank, I know this outfit wasn’t your first choice, but—”

“Sorry, miss Beauchamp, if you could just...” The makeup artist frowned and dabbed Claire’s lips with yet another brush. “I’m almost done here.”

Keeping her mouth shut, Claire took another glance at the man standing behind her, still pointing at the offensive garment — a simple shirtwaist black dress, worn with a black leather belt that released the fabric below the waist. It had been altered and hand-delivered from Gail Duncan’s office to the Hollywood Hotel, where her team was making sure that all the pieces were ready to go. Claire had firmly refused the assistance of a nail tech and a professional tanning team, but between her manager, the stylist, the hair and make-up team, and everyone’s assistants, the room was buzzing with agitation.

“Give her a break, Randall.” Gail shook her head, sending a whiff of Chanel’s _Chance_ across the room. “By the look of her dark circles before Mary did her magic, our girl had a very short night, and her tea still hasn't arrived. She's just a little cranky.”

“Nonsense. I just like this look better, that’s all.” Claire opened the jewellery box just delivered by security, and took out the drop-shaped earrings reflecting the lights of the three-panel mirror. “And don’t try to convince me to book one of those fillers sessions, Gail. Never again.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” The stylist unzipped a small bag of accessories, carefully selected the week before. “So you had one or two bruises here and there… You also looked a decade younger.”

“Well, if the only alternative is to look like I’ve been assaulted with a blunt object, sign me up as an old hag.”

Before the redhead could reply, Frank sat down next to Claire, his long, elegant fingers tapping impatiently on the side of the table.

“Look, all I'm saying is that this dress might be a little…”

“Understated?” Gail finished helpfully.

“Exactly,” Frank answered with distaste and grabbed a hanger from the rack of clothes behind them. “I think the Alexander McQueen strapless would—”

“Don't get me wrong, it's gorgeous.” Claire replied dryly. “But it wouldn’t fit half my arse. Plus, it's just... not me.”

One of the biggest names in the industry, Frank had only been her manager for about two years, but had landed her the four biggest roles of her career. The Londoner was a living embodiment of the word ‘driven’ — charming, ambitious, hard-working, experienced, constantly one step ahead. Not the kind of man who took no for an answer; even, or _especially_ , from his clients.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don't think anyone is interested in the real you — they want you to sell the dream. They want a look that screams _movie star._ And with so many nominees from the newer generation—” With one look at Claire, he stood up and held his palms in the air in a gesture of false submission. “Alright, alright, it’s your call, darling. Of course you'll look good in _anything_.”

As he rushed towards the exit, he leaned towards the stylist, whispering loud enough for Claire to make up the words.

“Do me a favour, make sure she’s wearing spanks, won’t you?”

A second later, he was gone, and Claire’s loud swearing crashed into the closing door.

***

_6:45pm_

Standing inside the reception hall of the Casa del Mar hotel, Jamie observed the small parade of celebrities dressed in expensive attires, loitering around round tables topped with centerpieces of gardenias and white roses. Beside the nominees and their guests, the room was packed with sponsors, members of the production team, accountants, journalists and media personalities, various donors and dignitaries, a few politicians, all suspended in the glitz of a privileged gilded bubble — a microcosm for the industry he’d once been a part of.

Freshly graduated from Glasgow’s Royal Conservatoire, with a grand total of two commercials and a few supporting roles on his resumé, he had landed his first major role by pure luck at the ripe age of twenty-four. The director and producers were looking for an unknown male lead, with some experience and a Scottish accent: two weeks after his audition in London, he was flown down to Seattle with a thick script to memorize, his father’s good suitcase, and the will to conquer. _This role could change your life_ , his agent had told him. In ways more than one, he had been right.

A modernization of _The Taming of the Shrew_ retold in an American high school setting, the movie was filled with reductive tropes — the bad boy, the nerdy feminist, the pretty boy, the popular girl — but also suprisingly entertaining. Only days after its release in the summer of 2000, it turned out to be a major success — the big breakthrough he’d been waiting for. 

It was also the reason he’d met _her_. Claire Beauchamp. Born and bred in London, only daughter to a playwright and a costume designer, she’d spent half her life on sets and was one of the industry’s rising stars. On the second day of filming, they’d started with a nervous kissing scene, the very first of both their careers — “best way to break the ice”, the director had declared. On the first take, he intended only a brief touching of lips, but Claire’s mouth was soft and warm and he had moved instinctively towards her. He’d been vaguely conscious of noises, the director’s call _Cut!_ , a few whoops of enthusiasm from the crew, but hadn’t noticed anything beyond her taste of berries, and the warm, gracious neck under his palm. _Sanctuary._

After that day and over the next twelve months, his life turned into a succession of moments. It was an endless round of photoshoots, TV interviews, parties and auditions, and Claire was the thread that connected them all together, helping him move to New York, holding him firm and away from the job’s landmines with her pragmatic cool-headedness and endless energy. And they were living the dream, learning their lines together, dreaming of an even brighter future to come. He should have known it wouldn’t last.

When the call came, he was at a wrap-up party, drinking champagne in somebody’s swimming pool. He’d flown back to Scotland in a haze, scared to death and a little hungover, and had found the family torn apart, and his father a shadow of his former self after a stroke leaving him paralysed from his left side.

After a month, he had flown back to the States for a new movie, but everything had changed. The laughs had become too loud; the drinks, tasteless; the attention, unwelcome. Only his love for Claire had kept him from being consumed by grief, and from crossing to the darker side of the industry. But there was no escaping the inevitable: he would go back to Scotland, and take over the family distillery; she had to stay to become the star she was destined to be. So he had made a choice.

She would be there tonight. But some memories were best left untouched. He pushed the thought firmly away, finished his drink, and headed towards a table of boring and important people.

***

_7:13pm_

As the limousine pulled up in front of the venue, Claire stifled a yawn and plastered a smile on her face, thinking with regret of the two-star lunch left behind (“ _No time to eat, darling! Plus, you’d ruin your makeup._ ”) and of the suite’s unused hot tub. Her black stilettos had barely touched the ground when she was greeted by an ubiquitous girl wearing a bright red T-shirt.

“Ms. Beauchamp? It’s such a pleasure to have you here.” Her smile was so wide that her jaws looked ready to split open. “My name is Jessie, and I’ll be your escort this evening. As you know, we are in a bit of a time crunch, and you’ve got a few interviews scheduled on the way so if you’ll follow me…” She jumped forward, shouting into her headset that _Claire Beauchamp_ had arrived.

A few seconds later, she was engulfed in a blinding sea of flashbulbs. The photographers were screaming her name, asking her to turn to the left, to the right, to take a step forward or back, and she complied for as long as it took, dazzling them with a smile, placing a hand on her hip, raising her chin, giving away little pieces of herself. After the red carpet interviews, feeling hungry and slightly lightheaded, Claire was herded off to a VIP room, where she was politely requested to pose for a famous photographer covering the event. But as the lightning-like flashes went on, everything around her turned blinding white, and her ears filled with a soft, rushing noise, like the wings of angels. _God, she was going to faint_.

“Right! I think we’re pretty much done here?” Stepping in front of the camera, Frank casually wrapped an arm around hers and passed her a cocktail. “I thought you might fancy a drink, darling.”

“Oh, thank God.”

She bit in a maraschino cherry, and the dark, lush fruit exploded with a satisfying “pop,” filling her mouth with a syrup thicker than molasses. By the time Frank had led her to the door, the rushing noise had receded and the white spots obscuring her vision had disappeared.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you. That was—”

“Good, because there’s someone you should talk to.” He pointed at a table across the room. “See Harvey over there?”

“Weinstein?” Claire grimaced slightly. “Hard to miss. What about him?”

“Nothing. Did you know he’s producing the next Tarantino project?” Frank stopped a waiter and snatched a king prawn amuse-bouche. “You may have a shot, if you play your cards right. Rumor has it he fancies you.”

Claire’s chin tilted upward, and she felt her jaw tighten.

“I see.”

Her agent chewed innocently on his cocktail stick, checking emails on his phone.

“Why don't you go and have a word? I’ll catch you up.”

***

_8:02pm_

Claire took a deep breath through her nose, then another one, until her heart slowed down. From the patio of the Casa del Mar, she could see Santa Monica pier, with the ferris wheel and the coloured lights of the arcade shining bright in the distance against the dark night sky and the Pacific Ocean. 

_The slight beads of perspiration above the man’s brow. The nauseating scent of an expensive Guerlain cologne. The looks that made her want to crawl out of her own skin, and the small, chubby hand creeping on her lower back. Glass shattering all over the floor._

She gulped the ocean air, greedily.

And beyond the lights? Five thousand miles of cold emptiness before reaching land again, in the east coast of Japan. _Too far to swim, Beauchamp_.

A pack of Marlboro was sitting on the banister rail, forgotten by a guest absorbed in conversation. It was the same kind her father used to buy every weekend, the strong aroma forever clinging to his coat. Hands shaking slightly, she picked it up and took out a cigarette.

“I didna ken ye smoked, Sassenach.”

A little wave of electricity struck her, and she stopped in her tracks, one cold hand halfway to her mouth. Funny how a simple word can take you back ten years in a split second; a voice you thought you’d never hear again. The small hairs of her arms standing on end, she took a long deep breath through her nose.

“I don’t, actually.”

Trying to conceal her nervousness, Claire bent her neck and fumbled in her purse for a few seconds, cursing under her breath as the steps came closer. The man stood a few inches behind her, the heat of his body seeping into hers. Feeling a little rattled, she turned around, taking in the height of him, the impeccable navy suit, the lopsided smile and the same intense gaze.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a lighter, would you?”

“Nah.” His eyes crinkled at the corners, the dark stubble shifting in a lopsided smile. “Whisky is all I can offer, I’m afraid.”

“That’ll do.” She caught the glass, and felt the brush of his fingers against hers. “What brings you to L.A.? Back in business, after all this time?”

“Christ, no,” he laughed without bitterness. “I’m just a sponsor. We’re expanding in North America.”

“ _We?_ ” She risked a casual look over her shoulder. “I didn’t know. Congratulations,” she smiled — and found that she meant it. She knew Jamie had done very well for himself. In ten years, through determination and hardwork, he’d managed to carry the family brand to the very top. But he deserved to share his success with someone special.

“Didn’t kn— oh,” he laughed, a deep, rumbling laugh. “No, no, it’s still just me, Ian, and Jenny, actually. Guess I’ve been too busy to settle down.”

“Hmm. The downside of success, I suppose.” Claire raised the glass with a smirk. “To your latest batch, then.”

The amber liquid filled her palate. It tasted of caramel and smoke, like the kiss they’d shared on a bonfire night at Golden Gardens, on the last day of filming.

Jamie looked mildly embarrassed, but kept smiling, his eyes sparkling in the darkness. The light scruff suited him, and his hair was longer than she remembered, curling at the nape, just above the collar.

“You look well, Jamie.”

“So do ye.” He took a step back, looking her up and down. “That dress...”

“Well, thank you. Some would say it’s a little plain.”

“And others might retort that ’tis the woman who should wear the clothes, no’ the other way around,” he answered without blinking.

Claire dropped her eyes, a little angry at herself, hoping he wouldn’t notice the small flush of warmth spreading into her face.

“You know my team once hired minivan for me to stand in?” She put the cigarette back into the pack and rolled her eyes with a dry laugh. “The bloody cape dress was stretched out into the back, with two assistants holding it so it didn’t get crumpled. Since then, I try to keep things... minimal. When I can.”

“Well, ye were never the overstating type, were ye?” he said softly.

“Not really, no.”

They stood in silence, assessing each other’s face, bridging a few memory gaps, the way one does after a decade apart. Claire was the first one to break the silence.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Jamie sighed deeply and sat on the stairs, suddenly absorbed in the content of his glass.

“My family needed me. My mother, Jenny... I couldna—”

“I know that, Jamie. I told you to stay as long as you needed, remember?” She shook her head in disbelief. “It’s only…” The handrail was cool against her hands; she pressed her right palm on the back of her neck. “I never really understood what happened. Why you never came back.”

“It wasna simple, back then.”

“But simple enough that you thought you could figure it out on your own?”

Silence grew thick between them. In a flash, she saw her twenty-three-year-old self sitting at Edinburgh airport’s _Pret a manger_ , drowning in a sea of hot, heavy tears that soaked a too-thin paper napkin. _Maybe we should take a break, until I figure things out_. The man in front of her was the same one who had sent her through security, and left without a second glance. The music in the background suddenly felt vulgar, out of place.

“Anyway, water under the bridge, I suppose.” With a shrug, she shook her head and zipped her purse shut. “I should get going. It was good seeing y—”

“Claire.” Slowly, he raised his head to stare at her, pupils swallowing the deep blue of his eyes. “Leaving ye… It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

Her breath caught a little at that. _The guts of this man_.

“And yet, you did,” she answered matter-of-factly. “Why?”

One word, carrying the weight of the world. What was it that people said? ‘ _You never forget your first love_ ’. It wasn’t entirely true — it was your first heartbreak that you carried forever.

“Because…” He stood up and came to stand by her side against the handrail. “Because I was dragging you down.”

A few seconds went by; she stared at him with gaping mouth.

“Ye turned down a role with Sean _fucking_ Penn, of all people, to come see me in Scotland,” he shook his head in disbelief. “But acting is in yer blood, Claire; ye were born to do it. For me, it was different, and between my family issues and the distillery…” he gestured, a little helplessly. “I was slowing ye down.”

“That’s all you came up with?” She scoffed, torn between laughter and raw anger. “You broke up with me _for my career’s sake_?”

Ignoring her sarcasm, he took one more step towards her.

“Ye worked so hard for this.” With clenched teeth, he gestured at the hotel. “Ye deserved it. It was the right thing to do.”

“But you had _no right!_ ” Infuriated, she crossed her arms and gripped them hard, in an effort to hide the shaking that spread through her. “It was my decision to make!”

“Aye, maybe. Ye were ready to stay, stubborn as ye were,” he said softly. He wore a glazed expression, as if replaying a moment imagined countless times. “And selfishly, I would have let ye.” He closed his eyes, and shook himself briefly. “But after a while, ye’d have gone back to the States. Can ye look me in the eyes, and tell me that ye would have been happy? Wasting yer potential to try to make a long-distance relationship work?”

“Potential? That… You...” She was fighting back tears of rage. “This isn’t the _point!_ ”

Her face was now inches from his chest, and she could smell him, feel the warmth of his powerful body through the fabric of his shirt.

“What _is_ the point, then?” he whispered between clenched teeth.

“The point is, you almost _broke_ me!” she exclaimed. “The point is, I loved you, and I thought you loved me!”

The answer had shot out of her like a bullet, straight and true. A single tear rolled down her cheek. _Fuck._ Sleep deprivation and unresolved emotional baggage really didn’t mix well. She looked up at Jamie, at the face cursed and adored, at that tenuous flicker of light between them, feeding on the hopes they’d once shared.

“Trust me, Sassenach, I see the irony in what I’m about to say, but...” His voice dropped to a murmur, and he swallowed audibly. “I never loved anyone but you.”

She gazed up into his eyes, reading tenderness, sadness... honesty. Slowly, he bent towards her until she could feel his warm breath on her cheek, his fingers on her neck. Their lips brushed, and before she realised what was happening, she closed her eyes.

Her phone's ringtone suddenly came blaring, and she jumped against the wall with a small gasp. Jamie took a step back, rubbing his knuckles against his mouth. With shaking hands, she grabbed her purse and unlocked the screen.

“I… This is my agent,” she croaked. “I have to go, the ceremony is about to start.”

“Aye, of course.” He gave her a side look and smiled. “Can we... talk later, maybe?”

_What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing, Beauchamp?_

“I…” She closed her eyes and breathed. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Claire—”

“You have a life, and I have mine.” She took a step back, then another. “It’s just… better this way.”

She turned around and ran down the stairs without a backward glance, her heart racing like a startled bird’s.

***

_8:55pm_

Frank darted at her like an arrow flying across the corridor.

“ _Where_ were you? And what the hell happened?” The vein on his forehead was bulging slightly, and he talked between clenched teeth, trying to keep his voice down. “Darling, I don't know what pills you popped in the limo, but now is a _terrible_ time to be high.”

“I’m not high,” she protested weekly.

“Aren’t you, really?” he scoffed. “Because that conversation was an absolute mess! Whatever you told Harvey, he did _not_ like it!”

“Frank…”

Ignoring her, he looked at his iPhone and started tapping frantically.

“We’ll have to do some damage control later tonight, maybe schedule another interview with...”

“Frank!” 

He rose his head sharply.

“I’m not taking that role,” Claire answered flatly. “And I think I’m going to head back, actually. I need to be alone.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.” As she turned around, Frank grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. “You need to wake up, Claire,” he hissed. “You hired me for a reason: not because I’m _nice_ , not because I’m _easy_ on you, but because I’m the best at what I do. I know you’re tired, but you need to start listening.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.” She snapped. “I’ve talked with the man, I’ve done my part, but I have my limits. So _let go_.”

“You, you, you!” he spat, rolling his eyes. “That’s all you talk about these days! Let me tell you one thing: without _me_ , you’d be a second-class actress cast by second-class directors, making one-tenth of your current paycheck — and I’m being generous. Whoever you are, Claire, I _made_ you. _I_ took you to the top. So get over yourself, and show some fucking professionalism!”

Perhaps it was the exhaustion of a three-month promotion tour, or the night’s resurgence of old memories buried deep inside; perhaps it was the whisky. Claire felt a rush of blood in her veins, a dark red wave running through her, making her fingers tingle.

“I’ll tell you what’s unprofessional, Frank,” she replied with a smile. “A pathological control-freak, who cares more about my fitness regime and my connections than about the roles I actually want to play.” She jerked back and twisted her arm from his grasp. “Give me a break with that patronising rubbish! You would deliver my ass on a silver plate to Weinstein and spread it with jam and cream yourself, if it meant you could add a precious nomination to your trophy wall, we both know it.”

Frank looked a little stunned, torn between fury and astonishment. She walked away without waiting for his reply, but paused for a few seconds as she reached the end of the corridor.

“Oh, and— _darling_? You’re fired.”

***

_9:57pm_

The next hour passed in a blur. Back to her table, Claire exchanged a few pleasantries with her neighbours, and clapped along with the crowd as the hosts introduced her fellow nominees, without listening to a single word. Every now and again, she risked a glance back, but there was no sign of Jamie at the sponsors tables: the Scot seemed to have vanished into thin air.

Distractedly, she fetched a programme of the evening, and flipped the pages until her eyes rested on a familiar face. With a small gasp, she began to read.

_As a proud Premier Sponsor of the Film Independent Spirit Awards, Broch Tuarach Distillery will serve the signature Purple Heather specialty cocktail on the red carpet. The brand will also be hosting the B.T. Backstage Lounge, and a bottle of 14 Year Old Calman Geal Single Malt will be placed on each table for attendees to enjoy during the show._

Calman geal.

Another memory flashed before her eyes — naked bodies spreading across crumpled sheets in the moonlight, a cheesy Nickel Creek song on the radio. “ _When you're soaring through the air - I'll be your solid ground_ ,” Jamie’s sleepy smile, a warm hand splayed on her hip. “ _Take every chance you dare - I'll still be there - When you come back do-oown_...” Her happy burst of laughter at his complete tone deafness, his light bite on her nape. “ _Don’t laugh._ _Ye do look like a white dove... Mo calman geal_.”

“Oh, Jamie,” she whispered.

Then all the spotlights turned on her, and the words resonated over the roaring noise of the crowd.

“And the Spirit Award for Best Female Lead goes to… Claire Beauchamp, in _After the tide!_ ”

***

_10:19pm_

Jamie watched Claire gracefully climb the stairs to the stage.

“Well, _bloody hell._ ” Friendly laughter rose from the audience. After all these years, he realised, that delightful accent of hers still rolled off her tongue like small stones polished by a stream. “Thank you to the committee. It is an honour to receive this award tonight. I...”

As she went on thanking the director and the crew, he stood still, allowing his eyes to wander over her body unhurriedly, deliberately, with a possessiveness that was almost alarming in its intensity. The chin, held up high. The cheekbones, cut and chiseled by the light. The light flush of her throat, only noticeable if you knew where to look. An escaped strand of hair curling over her naked shoulder, brushing the spot where his fingers had been. The memory sent a small shiver down his spine, and he redirected his attention to her lips and the words they were forming.

On the other side of the room, an urge to flee was rising in Claire’s chest, but she firmly set it aside.

“As actors, we tell stories about people.” The award was cool and heavy between her palms, its solid realness grounding her to the stage. “People who tried, who failed, who learned, who fought. People who fell in love, and lost.”

Jamie was merely a shadow moving behind the wall of red and orange lights, but she could feel his eyes on her, feel the realness of him under her skin, on her fingertips, under her ribs and between her legs. All the spaces that had once been his.

“To do right to these people, we must capture some fundamental element of truth.” Her lips curled up, and she let out a humourless laugh. “There’s a certain irony to that, I suppose, when many of us get so caught up in the drama of our profession and the pursuit of our careers that it becomes incredibly easy to... forget ourselves.”

Now with the lights dimmed, she could see Jamie had sat down at a table away from the stage. She turned her head slightly and met the blue flame of his eyes, boring through her.

“But by portraying an extraordinary woman, I have been allowed to celebrate what it means to _live a life_ , and live it truthfully.”

Her heart felt too full, bursting at the seams, stomping against her chest so loudly she was sure the whole room could hear it.

“Her character taught me that, in acting and in life, there is _truth_ to be found in love.” 

_She had loved this man, with all her heart._ _And he had loved her._ Without taking her eyes off him, she smiled, a genuine smile of gratitude and farewell.

“So thank you for tonight, thank you for the memories. I will treasure them, always.”

With a lump in his throat, Jamie watched her turn around and disappear behind a thick velvet curtain. Loud music was covering the audience’s whispers, but he could feel their tone, either sarcastic or unkind. Slowly, he rose from his chair and headed to the backstage lounge.

***

_10:36pm_

The press room was packed to the brim, but no sign of her. He made his way through the rows of tables, almost knocking a coffee dispenser to the ground as he passed.

“Oi, man!” He threw a hand across a representative’s chest. “Claire Beauchamp. Where did she go?”

“You’re a bit late, dude. No interviews, she said.” The man raised an eyebrow and gestured towards the back. “Think she left this way. I mean, that speech was a mess, right? She—”

His feet were running before he knew where.

***

_10:39pm_

“Claire!”

Standing in a narrow corridor, she was bracing herself against the wall with one hand, clutching her phone with the other, probably texting her assistant. At the sound of Jamie’s steps, she raised her head, looking pale.

“Look," she started, "I have to…”

“Claire,” he called again.

Her name rolled on his tongue, soft and strong and inviting, and his heart drummed in response. _Claire, Claire, Claire_. A name buried for ten years under beach sand and the ashes of a small bonfire, put out by his own foolishness; a name waiting to be uncovered, rediscovered, reclaimed.

Gently, he reached out, slowly lifting his hand, and tucked the escaped lock of hair behind her ear, thumb brushing her cheekbone.

“ _You gotta leave me now - You gotta go alone,”_ he sang softly. “ _You gotta chase a dream, One that's all your own - Before it slips away._ ”

She crossed her arms and let out a teary laugh, covering her mouth with her free hand.

“ _When you're soaring through the air - I'll be your solid ground,_ ” Jamie went on, pulling her closer. “ _Take every chance you dare - I'll still be there - When you come back down._..”

Claire sobbed quietly as he swayed her in his arms, a tear running down his own face.

“I’m sorry, Sassenach,” he swallowed, “for leaving ye out there on yer own. I know it’s not an excuse, but I thought I knew best, I was grievin’, and—” 

“A fool. A fucking idiot. I know.” She breathed out, resting her cheek against his palm. “For now... I need you to kiss me. If you still remember how.”

“We havena done this in a very long time...” He laughed shakily, and cradled her face between his hands, thumbing the beads of moisture from her cheeks. “But aye... I remember. So do you.”

His whisper sent shivers down her spine and she moved instinctively towards him, locking her gaze with his, savouring the sensation of broad hands in her back, the light rasp of his belt against her dress, her breasts pressed tight against him. 

Jamie slid one hand behind her head, catching the nape of her neck, and their eyes fluttered shut as he slowly pressed his mouth against hers. Melting against each other, tongues caressing and seeking, they sighed in unison and clung tighter, fingers grabbing at any fabric they could find. Time seemed to come to a standstill; before he could register what was happening, they were standing against the solid wall, legs intertwined, hips meeting rhythmically. Soon, very soon, he thought dimly, the ceremony would be over, a crowd of journalists would storm the corridor — but his whole body was thrumming, Claire was against him, warm and urgent, and he found himself unable to interrupt their perfect dance, even for one second. Eventually, it was her who broke their kiss.

“Not here,” she whispered, glancing over towards the dressing rooms. “Come on.”

Closing the door behind them, she pushed him against it, and he groaned deeply against her mouth as he tugged her skirt up, sliding along her upper thighs. Locking her golden eyes on his, she placed her fingers on his wrist and brought their hands higher, until he reached the band of a silky underwear. Reveling in Claire’s short intake of breath, Jamie slowly kneaded the soft fabric with his knuckles, feeling the warm flesh underneath. Three more minutes at this rate, and he would lose it.

Slipping an elbow around each leg, he lifted her effortlessly, turned, and walked to the only seat in the room, a green sofa with button-tufted velvet cushions, where he sat down with her on top of him.

“Wait—,” she moaned softly, arching her back and grabbing at the flesh on his shoulder blades. “Don't have — a condom — we need to—”

“Dinna fash,” he whispered against her lips, unzipping the back of her dress, allowing the material to fall to her waist. “I’ve got ye.”

“No, wait—”

“Let me touch ye.” He leaned toward her and nuzzled the shell of her ear. “I _need_ to touch ye, Claire.”

Already his fingers were moving under the last layer of fabric and sliding against her, his other hand seeking her breast, uncovering the thin black lace, and Claire lost her last hold on consciousness. Nothing existed beyond his mouth, his fingers, and the pulsating heat he was creating, softly caressing her sensitive flesh, making her whimper and jerk against him. Finally, lips parted in one silent cry, she felt her whole body tighten, and he helped her ride out her release, pressing her tight against him until her raging waves subsided. After she collapsed on his chest, he held on to her in silence, took off her shoes, and gathered her on his chest as he laid back on the sofa. Moments later, he felt her stir against him.

“We need to go,” she flinched suddenly. “If anyone sees us—” 

“One minute, _mo calman geal_ ,” he whispered in her ear. “Let me hold ye for one more minute, and then we’ll go anywhere ye want.”

***

_04:50am_

Much later that night, as the sun rose above the ocean and the sky turned to glorious shades of pink and orange, a few joggers, dog-owners and inebriated partygoers passing by Santa Monica beach noticed a couple sharing a pizza in front of a small bonfire. Not an unusual sight by any means, and none of them stopped to look closer.

If they had, perhaps they would have noticed the way the tall man’s eyes rested on the woman’s neck, or the sound of her laugh, carried by the wind. They would have marvelled at the flames, leaping and sending sparks into the cool night sky, and they would have watched the woman rise and dance in the sand, her black dress twirling around her.

Two lovers, two strangers, or not quite. Two silhouettes holding each other, watching the sun go up, and the tide slowly come in.

**Author's Note:**

> Claire and Jamie's song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jhFT6SqarUU


End file.
